


Blue Summer

by Transistance



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Flowers, Gardens & Gardening, Living Together, Screenplay/Script Format, Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-13
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-06-08 04:08:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6838462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Transistance/pseuds/Transistance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How can anyone be morose on so beautiful a day?</p><p>(Written in a style aimed to be similar to that of Tennessee Williams'.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blue Summer

**Author's Note:**

> This is ridiculously self-indulgent because I have just simplified and stylised my own garden instead of using any creativity for the scene; sorry. Title is faux deep and I'm not convinced that the fic holds together too well, but hopefully it's okay.
> 
> I have never attempted this style of writing before (and have only read three of Williams' plays; if you're better versed in them than me feel free to tell me off) but can definitely say that it's good fun. If you're fond of beautiful prose within drama, read Williams' plays - they're very dark (realistically, on issues that may or may not touch too close to home) but absolutely gorgeous in terms of technicality.

_It is high summer: one of those drawn-out cloudless days where the sun seems omnipresent and the resultant heat permeates throughout the bodies of men and women regardless of where they are, what they have been doing or which measures have been taken in the attempt to escape the cloying warmth. Unseen birds chatter in various tones._

_The scene is all garden; from right to left it is comprised of a hedge, a swathe of flowerbeds – dotted with lurid tulips in reds and yellow, but for the most part drowning in unidentifiable green leafy plants – an overgrown patio with a low wooden table and benches, and a small pond suggested by an abundance of marsh marigolds and reeds. A raised bed forms a rocky wall between the patio and the flowerbeds, but the only life upon it aside from grasses and ivy is a cluster of white daffodils. Vivid fuchsia saxifrages spill across the patio between the pond and table. Two trees – low, branched ornamentals – stand behind the pond, and a scarlet rhododendron in full bloom is amassed in the far corner. The backdrop to the garden is the house itself, although all that can be seen of it is white walls and an open door, with shallow steps leading up. Beyond the house is a border of indeterminate grey, without features or depth._

_There are three tiers of light: the outer garden and flower patches are almost white in the brilliance, fading gently into the dappled shade of an unseen tree around the table and then into further darkness in the porch of the house. The blackness in the house is not due to real darkness but merely the contrast against the rest of the scene – nonetheless, it is never lit enough for the interior to be visible. The shadow of the tree sways gently throughout in an otherwise unfelt breeze and very faint music seems to drift on the air, its source ambiguous: it may come from a neighbour's garden, recur in the mind of either character or simply be cast by the atmosphere of the day itself. It is[Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nT7_IZPHHb0), 1st movement, or something equally sombre._

_[GRELL is on her knees amongst the tulips, busy working the flowers free from the chokeholds of weeds and the dead shoots of the past year. Although her complexion suggests that she should burn easily, her face and hands remain incredibly pale – the rest of her body is hidden from sight by an outfit not quite befitting the weather. She sports a strange conglomeration of styles; her crimson hair is impractically long and loose around her shoulders and her face is obviously cosmetic, but she wears a waistcoat over a floral shirt and slacks. A sunhat with a single artificial rose affixed to its brim hides her eyes from the sun. In spite of the masculinity of her clothes and figure, femininity is expressed through her grace of motion, the way she holds herself, and the lilting edge to her voice._

_Her partner is watching her from under the eaves of the house. He isn't wearing a suit, but looks as though he ought to be; the plain shirt, sleeves rolled as far back as possible and collar loose, is unbecoming on him. Even in the shade it is obvious that his skin is beginning to burn. An expression that resembles the exasperation borne from an inability to find the source of a problem is blooming on his face.]  
_

WILLIAM: I don't know how you can stand being out there in this heat.

GRELL: _[laughs]_ I'm simply _R E S I L I A N T!_ A little sunshine doesn't bother me – in fact, it's downright pleasant! When was the last time that our climate was so fair? You should come out and enjoy it whilst it lasts.

WILLIAM: I certainly will not.

_[Grell pauses and turns to give him a long, searching look. Her frown suggests less that she's annoyed by him and more that she doesn't understand his hostility toward the idea, but after a moment it clears with a slight roll of her eyes and she returns to the weeding.]_

GRELL: You'll miss it when it's gone.

WILLIAM: I'm sure. What are you doing, anyway?

GRELL: Ridding the garden of its resident dandelions.

WILLIAM: Why?

GRELL: Well – they're weeds! You're not telling me that you want them here?

WILLIAM: I'm not even certain which ones they are.

_[Grell's lips part in mute surprise, and she plucks a single flower from its plant and holds it up toward him. William surveys it ineffectively, without moving from the porch, and then seems suddenly to recognise it; clarity washes over his face, and he adjusts his glasses with one hand.]_  


WILLIAM: There's thousands of those. It'll take you all day.

GRELL: But _think_ how much tidier the place will look once they're gone! There's still so much to do, you're right – but it's not as though we haven't got the time. We've all eternity to make this place perfect.

WILLIAM: All summer, at least.

GRELL: Yes. The saxifrages are dying back already, have you noticed? They're fading.

WILLIAM: They just haven't had enough water.

GRELL: You would say that.

WILLIAM: Really – given a day of rain they'll spring back to life. They always do.

GRELL: _[A little dubiously]_ I suppose you've seen the same sort of cycle every year.

WILLIAM: Every year.

GRELL: They're beautiful flowers. And the climate seems to suit them nicely.

WILLIAM: More nicely than it suits me, certainly.

GRELL: Evidently! You're drooping like a parched plant yourself – have you been drinking enough? Maybe your recognition of the saxifrages' plight is a subconscious cry for water.

WILLIAM: It was just an observation-

GRELL: No, go in and get yourself a drink! You must have seen at _L E A S T_ as many deaths from accidental dehydration as I have, and although I'm certain you won't _D I E_ it might cool you down a bit. Actually, you could fetch me a glass too, if you don't mind.

WILLIAM: _[A little bemusedly]_ Alright.

_[William retreats into the darkness of the house, and Grell sits up to push her fringe out of her eyes. The music fades slightly as she begins to hum the first few bars of an obscure but jovial tune, its semi-distracted lightness at odds with the violence in her movements when she returns to ripping out the weeds. Her humming trails off when William returns, carrying a pitcher and two glasses._

_Setting them down on the table, still safely under the shade, he pours himself a glass, drains it, and then sits down heavily before filling both of them. After a moment he closes his eyes, tips his head back and spreads his limbs wide in a vain and pitiable attempt not to overheat._  


WILLIAM: Water's here.

GRELL: Thanks. _[She makes no move to get it, but gives William a sympathetic look over the raised beds.]_ You know, I think next time we've got a joint day off we should go and find a market that sells flowers. Once these beds are clear but for the tulips they'll be terribly sparse.

WILLIAM: It would have to be a morning or an afternoon – I doubt we would both be allowed a full day off. Even hoping for half is optimistic.

GRELL: _[surprised]_ You agree with me?

WILLIAM: Should I not?

_[Grell grins. Her teeth need not be explicitly shown – they are suggested through the way she moves her mouth and the predation in her smile. It's aimed at William, but his eyes are still closed; she registers this with good humour and carefully stands, picking her way across the flowerbed until she comes to the raised bed which she begins to weed in earnest.]_

GRELL: You don't enjoy arguing with me so much these days.

WILLIAM: I have never _enjoyed_ arguing with you.

GRELL: I don't know whether I should be overjoyed or irked by that.

WILLIAM: The former, please.

GRELL: Do you like my shoes? I'm afraid they aren't terribly suitable for gardening.

WILLIAM: _[with a careful lack of inflection and without looking at her]_ They're nice. Are they new?

GRELL: New? I've had these since the fifties! Just haven't much chance to wear them; they're too light to go with most of my outfits.

WILLIAM: Oh. I see.

_[Grell's smile drops a little; her gaze becomes contemplative.]_

GRELL: Are you alright? You've been dreadfully morose all day. Even in such lovely weather!

WILLIAM: I'm fine.

GRELL: Are you sure?

WILLIAM: I'm just – not used to the heat.

GRELL: Look, darling, come out here.

_[She moves to the shade and offers him her hand; he takes it and allows himself to be pulled into the sun._

_As the light catches his face it becomes abruptly apparent that William is far younger than his demeanour suggests: he is perhaps in his mid-twenties, certainly less than thirty. His face is unlined and his eyes, although tired, remain bright. Grell releases him but remains standing at his side, and William squints at her, obviously unused to the brilliant light.]_

WILLIAM: Do you want me to answer you – truthfully?

GRELL: I want you to speak plainly, that's all.

_[William nods, and raises a hand to shield his eyes from the glare before speaking. Grell offers him her hat but he waves her away.]_

WILLIAM: It's summer again.

GRELL: _[after a pause]_ Yes.

WILLIAM: It always seems to arrive so quickly.

GRELL: It's certainly early this year.

WILLIAM: I wouldn't mind so much if time progressed as it should; I wouldn't mind this damning heat if I could appreciate it, miss it when it's gone, as you said – but I can't. I cannot miss these broiling days because they cycle round again endlessly, every unwanted, undeserved year – how many summers have we seen die? Twice our natural span, thrice that? How many more will beat upon our backs, this same heat regurgitated from the maw of another recurrent century, on those same – bloody – saxifrages? We're ensnared, caught like – butterflies in a glass jar. We can't see the glass; only the world beyond toward which we strain without the ability to even mark the barrier before us. And this aimless, detrimental flapping continues until we've no energy left to move, because we have burned ourselves out for the promise of the sky.

_[He breaks off, glancing upward almost involuntarily as though he stands within his own metaphor. For a moment his eyes close and consternation is clear in the turn of his mouth and a shallow frown – but then it lifts, and he gives Grell a look, sideways and apologetic.]_

You must think me bitter – I'm sorry. You were enjoying the sun.

GRELL: Oh, Will... _[She moves as though to embrace him but then thinks better of it, enclosing his hand in both of hers.]_ I think that you're overheating, tired and overworked – but bitter? No. You believe I've never felt the same? That I've never felt the weight of the years when days don't seem to end? I understand. We're stuck here, it's true - some of us more unwillingly than others – and have been for too long, and will be for too long yet. And there's nothing you can do about it, so you may as well... tend the flowers; enjoy the sun. The end point will come, you know it will; that you cannot see it yet makes that no less true.

WILLIAM: Thank you – for –

GRELL: Being here?

WILLIAM: Being you.

_[Grell's face splits into an ebullient smile and now she does throw her arms around him and pull him very close, heedless of the heat or his previous air of stagnant hostility. The gesture is reciprocated: his arms find her back beneath the curtain of her hair and he leans his head against hers, and although his face is still not quite serene his expression has eased enough that, from a distance, he may seem content. Grell murmurs something soft and kind that makes William laugh, equally quietly, and he kisses her with all the tender care of a dying man._

_The music swells, and then goes silent; all that can be heard is the distant calls of the birds, the background voice of summer.]_

**Author's Note:**

> There's a [procrastination photoset ](http://drahnian.tumblr.com/post/144114414234/everythings-in-bloom-photographer-m0osey) associated with this fic.


End file.
